THE GIRL WHO ‘GBAA’ED, AND ‘THAT GROUP’ STORY

The only thing more annoying than long queues is joining one. It was during one of such frustrating moments that a very nice young lady walked up to me and asked,

“Did you came before me?”

I stared at her as if to ask, “Did I WHAT?”

I only gave a half smile and allowed her to have her way in the queue, while in my head, I laughed out loud. Having treated my mind to a good laugh, I continued reading the news headlines and sharing opinions on each social or political issues to myself before she had interrupted me with her grammatical incompetence. Afriyie Acquah slaps wife with divorce; she should be thankful he didn’t slap her with his bare hands. KNUST graduate joins ISIS, the headlines read. I was taken aback immediately. ISIS? If only people knew how dreadful that group is, they wouldn’t call it ISIS. They should just call it That Group.

The operations and objectives of That Group is so destructive that I would rather die in my crush’s friendzone than talk about it. Perhaps the only description I can give about That Group (that would put me and my sixty-something year old father on a safer side) is that, they are a group of brainwashed Islamists who are so extreme in their practices and doctrines, some of which beat intellectual analysis. What kind of doctrine endorses manslaughter, racism, rape amongst others? This kind of extremism is so extreme that, it would need the extreme use of extreme understanding to get to the extreme bottom of this. And extremism, is very dangerous.

Why would handsome Nazir join That Group? It was then that I looked at it from another perspective and realized there could be more. First of all, we are in Ghana. Wasn’t it this same Ghana that a certain graduate had to break security protocol just to submit a (common) CV to the first lady? Isn’t it this same Ghana that girls are more favored than their male counterparts in the job market just because they (the girls) are endowed with soft protruding features which in some cases give them competitive advantage? Isn’t it this same Ghana that people have to bribe their way into job securements? Isn’t it this same Ghana that a certain entity is sending thousand university graduates (who have toiled real hard to successfully make it out of the tertiary system) to go and direct traffic for a whole year after which they would be practically jobless because some smart person who didn’t collapse while studying in the Balme or UCC or KNUST library would be coming to replace them at the traffic post? I can’t even imagine how directing traffic for about a whole year makes one any innovative for the job market.

Isn’t it this same Ghana that has lots of young people with brilliant ideas, but because of financing among other factors, have nothing but big dreams and would resort to teaching primary schools in order to make some cedi in the right way? Isn’t it this same Ghana that prices of fuel keep going higher like StoneBwoy’s music career? Isn’t it this same Ghana that boys must engage in fraud or sakawa to be at peace with their demanding girlfriends? What else would unemployed people do apart from feeding their minds with all sorts of things from the internet and then later on hope that the countless job applications they’ve submitted would be given due consideration?

One reason why I believed President Mahama John won last elections was because he appealed to the youth population in every manner. Because he was far younger (I doubt if he still is) than Nana Akuffo Addo, we believed he would understand the concerns of the youth with less difficulty. Do you remember how he used to dance ‘azonto’ at some point, and how he spoke to the youth issues? Then one day, long after he had won the elections, he said our destinies are in our own hands. Our destinies are in our own hands yet ECG and NSS are toying with them for a while. Well, since Nazir’s destiny is also in his own hands, he decides to join That Group! The moment Nazir agreed with himself that the kind of destiny our president was talking about can’t be realized on earth, he decided to pursue the one that can be realized in the afterlife. That’s one hell of a destiny you know. And now, the one word that shadows everybody else’s destiny is fear; the fear of That Group.

-         TONY AFUTI EYRAM,

KNUST.

A LETTER TO MY UNBORN DAUGHTER.

Dear Akpene,

Before I use the usual format of 'I am very happy to write you this letter', let me quickly apologize for the name I chose to give you. Well, it wouldn't make sense to readers but to you, to be born in this era and be tagged with such an indigenous Ewe name which would be competing with names like Serene, North West, Oneisha, June-March, Blue Ivy, May Flower, Miss Anthrope and the likes, I think you deserve every bit of my apology. But you should be thankful (as your name implies) that I didn't drink any of those things some parents drunk and then decided to name their kids, Jesus is Lord, Power In the Blood, Agbodzalu, Ekomba, Agbedefu, and co. I still remember the shocking look I gave your grandfather when he suggested a middle name for me.

"Henceforth, add Aglobi when writing your name," he had said.

"So my name would be Tony Aglobi Afuti?" I asked, with shocked face, hoping his response would be negative.

"Yes," he affirmed.                           

After a short while of discontenting silence which he noticed, he added;

"Or you don't like the name?"

His question was more surprising than the name. Your grandfather used to be type who didn't take suggestions. Anytime he asked for suggestions, it wouldn't be considered anyways so we just allowed him to decide for us. Mostly, his decisions were best for us and saved us the headache of indecision. Look at the middle name he suggested;

"How about Eyram, or Seyram?"

"I prefer Eyram," I quickly chipped in before he changed the idea of allowing me influence the middle name he was going to give me. And that was how I escaped having a thunderous Ewe name. Even with that, if I was to get a dollar for the number of times people had spelt my surname wrong, I would be a millionaire.

As you haven't been born yet, I'm just writing this letter to gist you on a few occurrences to expect when you come. I would start with the usual issues. Oh yes! Dumsor hasn't stopped. It hasn't ohh! On the day you come out of your mother's womb and you see midwives holding torchlights and phones, it isn't a photo-shoot okay. That's how things are done out here. Yes, I remember telling you about Yvonne Nelson's #DumsorMustStop campaign. Hmmm. The campaign didn't change anything ohh. It only infuriated the Ga gods to murder one hundred and fifty-eight (158) innocent people (excluding Justin Beiber- oh how?). Where were the Ga gods when the kwashey boy took my laptop, money and phone? Where were the Ga gods when people where dumping things in the gutters? Where are the Ga gods when elected representatives turn parliamentary sessions to nap sessions? Where were the Ga gods when some people are looting (and others are rooting)? Where were the Ga gods when I got laid-off at work? Where were the Ga gods when that pot-bellied married man convinced (without words) one of your prospective mothers away from my grab? Where were the Ga gods when another of your prospective mothers told me I was like a brother to her? Honestly Akpene, I know I am a brother to only one girl, and that's your Aunty. I've never asked her out on a date before. What then is the correlation between being like a brother and let's go out on a date? You see some of the things that gets me annoyed.

Well, if that is how the beautiful girls in modern times do it, then I guess I wont have a problem with you replicating it on the male population that would constantly be on your neck to take you out. It would only mean I'm going to have more sons than I can imagine.

In other news, a twenty two year old girl (a student of Kwame Nkrumah's dearest Institution) won the primaries and is likely to go to parliament next year. She is parliament-bound. Even if it is Barack Obama who contests against her, she would still win the elections. There's absolutely no chance of a non-NPP candidate winning in her constituency. And yes! She's twenty-two. That's a great achievement for all young people. At twenty-two, I won several trophies with Real Madrid on FIFA. You see, at least I achieved something; unlike some people who are twenty-two and are just sitting there 'procrasturbating'.

WAEC cancelled BECE results because they leaked. You see, the education system too has its issues. Exams has been leaking (e no be today). There is no credibility anywhere. And who should be blamed? You would come out to meet an environment where exams (and Mondays) is everybody's nightmare. Why won't we want to cheat? WAEC should cancel it and even cancel Fathers' day and Mothers' day!

Akpene, Fathers' day came oh! And it didn't come alone. It came with more controversies than Wanlov Kubolor has caused in his entire life. They say (some) fathers are irresponsible and stuff. I wouldn't want to delve into that now. Just like I keep encouraging myself that someday, my chest and arms and shoulders would be like Terry Crews', I would admonish you to stay calm, and do enough training for the race you would be racing against a million other Akpenes.

Till then, bye for now.

-Your father,

Tony Afuti Eyram.

FLOODING: Who should I blame? My dead grandmother?

Everybody got problems. I’ve got ninety-nine, but I would just take this teaspoon and stir my cup of rice-water, drink it cautiously (because of my deteriorating dental issues), after which I would cover myself with these sheets ostensibly to enjoy the cold weather and hope someway somehow, the rains would stop. The weather’s got all the power to give the shower, but it’s been pouring heavily for over an hour, and soon, ECG would take the power. I could hear people scooping out the rain water that was creeping into their rooms. Every time the place floods, someway somehow, I’m never live at the scene. But fate had other plans this time. It was when my mind stopped giving me pleasing accounts of how I had turned my joblessness into romantic moments with my new catch that I asked myself, “is that water?” “Tony, Tony! Sↄriooo! Nsuo nu bawodem hↄ!!” My landlady (I would explain later) called out that same moment. I jumped out of myreverie, got my yellow shorts on, and jumped into action.


I scooped, and scooped; praying the water level would go down a bit. But the rains wouldn’t stop. The sight of my old landlady, her daughter and fellow tenants scooping made me feel like I was Jonah. I asked God to forgive me for a certain sin I had committed the previous evening. Close to an hour after saying that prayer, the rain ceased. Three to four hours later, we were done fetching all the water out, and we returned to our rooms to count our (wet) losses. When you pray for rain, be prepared for mud (and in places like Circle, Teshie, Ashiaman, and my hood, be prepared for flood). Forget about the ‘mayweather’, this is the ‘Juneweather’ and yearly, we make noise about floods, and a month or so after the floods, we forget the devastating effects it had on us, until it comes again, then we start scooping out, our leaders (wear jeans and black t-shirts) and start promising, Ghana Fire Service and NADMO become baffled, sirens blare, Korle Bu becomes full,  fuel containers explode, people drown, lose their belongings, lives (and virginities), electricity poles catch fire, ‘kwashey’ and sakawa boys return home because water may be creeping into their ghettos, Ashiamantrotro drivers wonder if it was a good decision to go on strike since water would’ve entered the engines of their vehicles and money to fix them would be another headache. Nothing is more disheartening than the fact that the waakye seller wouldn’t come to work the next day because she spent all-night saving her cooking pots from being carried away by the raging water.


So who should we blame? If not our leaders, then who? My late grandmother? You must be joking! Nobody prevented nobody from dismantling my property that was in a waterway. All I wanted was appropriate compensation. If you demolish my structure (mostly done without notice), where do you expect me to spend the night? In my grandmother’s grave? What have you done to stop those who wouldn’t stop polluting the drainage system? How about covering it? How about making more underground drainages? How would I dump rubbish in an underground drainage? Stop blaming me for your inability to be creative in seeking solutions to the problems you’ve been elected (or appointed) to solve.You said we should do Sanitation Day, we obeyed. That’s rather a short-term thing. How about your long-term goals? It is about time these suit-wearing and SUV-driving people we call leaders leave Legon girls alone and think about how to solve problems. We put you there to solve problems. So that when we come back from selling our yoghurt, and carrying the ‘kponkpos’, and other places of work, there should be electricity, armed robbers wouldn’t trouble our peace, and when our undergraduate kids leave school, they would get some sort of ‘nokofioo’ employment to hold on to.


It is just the rains and see what’s happening. Can you imagine what it would’ve looked like had these floods been caused by tsunamis, snowmelts, dam breakdowns, unusual high tides amongst others? What’s happening to our Meteorological Service? If salaries were unpaid, they would’ve been on strike. But they can’t sensitize us on the imminence of bad weather, and constantly remind this forgetful government on the need to appropriately prepare for the heavy rains.


We have monies to pay judgment debts, undertake questionable projects, and bid to host sport tournaments, yet we can’t build dams, weirs, and series of reservoirs and canals that would solely serve for the purposes of flood control.When South Korea has spent over 18billion USD to completely solve the problem of flooding, what have we put in place? When Korea spent that much in four years to build sixteen weirs, creating artificial wetlands and ecological waterways, a section of us down here just prays, another section loots, another promises (and then promises to stop promising when the going gets tough and the promises don’t look promising), another turn the lights off and on every second, another is searching for acid to attack another, another is laying off another, and at the end of the year, the same issues appear before us again.


What do we use our (if we even have any) technology for? And Kwame Nkrumah’s dearest institutions are producing students with ‘memorized knowledge’ instead of making us have the benefit of practical knowledge. Dear KNUST students, let’s go beyond solar traffic lights (though it’s remarkable) and designing ‘dumsor’ android applications, and doing sextapes,and exploit technology to make our existence easier. Life’s hard; it’s harder when you don’t learn from past mistakes.


Oh wait! My lights went out!!


TONY AFUTI EYRAM,
KNUST.

EMOTIONAL MARKETPLACE (A short story series).

            Waiting for a ‘Dear student, your student loan has been paid’ text message was the most depressing moment of my life. It was as depressing as waiting for ‘dumsor’ to end, or for our nation leaders to reason, or for Liverpool to win an EPL title, or for the moment you would successfully make it out of the friend-zone. In certain instances, it seemed as impossible as the tarring of my manhole-prone Fodome road; more like waiting for a train at the airport. Akuffo Addo may become president of Ghana someday, but that goddamn payment of students’ loan text message may take forever to come. Why should money I would definitely payback take this long to come? I wondered. Nothing pained me more than the fact that all the money I was expecting would be used to pay off debts, leaving only a meagre rest for my personal use. Just last weekend, I had received a letter from Dzigbordi (the girl to whom I’ve been betrothed) telling me about her father’s deteriorating health, and that she needed money to add up to what they already had, to seek treatment for the ailing man. Considering the grammatical impotence of her letter, I wondered if Dr. Kwegyir Aggrey really meant what he said about girl education. But I don’t blame her. Her level of education was just adequate to get her betrothed to me (or vice versa). I really didn’t like her. I had heard her father owed mine some money, and so our betrothal was some form of collateral.

            “Man, body dey?”

            My very good friend, Yusif, patted me on the back to awake me to my present setting. It was then that I remembered we were sitting in front of Independence Hall purposely to look at the young ladies that strolled by. Because I wasn’t in my usual mood, I hadn’t taken notice of those enticing cleavages, the tempting imprints of their womanhood on the leggings some of them wore, and the seductive wobbling movement of their gargantuan backsides.

            “See, abeg, make una forget this people jorr.”

            “Which people?”

            I asked; not sure whether he was asking me to forget the Students’ Loan people, or the lecturers whose courses I had trailed, or Dzigbordi’s family people who kept calling my Siemens phone to demand for a portion of my lean Students’ Loan, or my landlady who constantly abuses my dignity because of common light bill, or the sitting President, John Mahama, who we didn’t know (for all this while) was suffering from dead goat syndrome. Yusif was the only non-Ghanaian friend I had. Inferring from his rich authentic Pidgin English, you don’t need to be told he was a Nigerian. How he became my friend, only my Fodome gods know. Having a friend like this who advises me to just sit and stare at girls, or to buy panties for Sally (the girl at church I’m crushing on), is as questionable as my landlady responding to my greeting. I can swear that my mother would slaughter me should she finds out the kind of company I keep in school. But Yusif and I flowed.

            “Ynkↄ bush,” he proposed.

            I followed him. We walked in silence till we got to our usual wee smoking base where we met some other guys who had taken wee-smoking like gyming (going in turns, round after round, variety after variety). It was a place we called G-spot, a cemetery, located in the bushes several meters beside the Evandy hostel. The atmosphere was enough to make you high.

            “Efo, this one na higher grade. Make una try am see. Your mind no go dey for that village girl en calling wey she dey call call you.”

            I sucked the roll.

The next day, Saturday, was another slow and boring day. As to how I got to my room, I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t heard from Yusif all morning. Maybe he was unimpressed about the fact that I’ve been smoking weed for this long yet my confidence still suffered from erectile dysfunction. My roommate had already gone for a church program. He was a fine young man. I particularly admired the way he took God serious. But me, I was a dead Christian. I had given up hope on myself that I could be consistent in church, so I never tried. Maybe once a while, I would show my face in church and instead of paying attention, my stare would deviate towards Sally. She was beautiful, had a nice smile, was fair (you know how Ewe guys have a thing for fair girls), and took the things of God like it was the World Cup. But you see, I believe I could quench the Holy Ghost in her with just a kiss. But where was my confidence? I couldn’t even talk to her yet alone imagine kissing her. She seemed always happy, and was a chorister. Maybe I should join the choir, maybe not. Well, if they smoked wee at choir rehearsals, I would join them…

I went to the extension (what in KNUST parlance is called balcony). My roommate had boiled some pathetic jollof rice. As usual (without permission), I scooped half of the left-over and fed my lean stomach. I ate slowly just to waste time. Then the door opened.

“Can I come in?” A young man peeped in.

I asked him to come in. From his sharp look (tie and shirt, and a small handbag), I correctly guessed he was a Jehovah Witness who had come to (as usual) tell me about God’s kingdom, but wouldn’t tell me what it takes to get there. He sat on my roommate’s bed and talked. The only thing I heard was “Please try and go to church tomorrow. God loves you.”

My Saturday evenings were comparatively boring. On one or two occasions, I would meet the landlady’s daughter and we would go for a walk. But mostly, I feared being with because she was underage and was just in Junior High School. The day her obese mother would grab the two of us together, Yusif would have a tribute to write. Her name was Fawusia. Like her mother, she was stout, busty, and had a bleached skin. She was spoilt beyond repairs. Had it not been for the scary things I had heard about premarital sex and a prophetess who had once told me that my first premarital sex would bring me an unwanted baby, I would have donated my virginity to her long ago.

Yusif would say, “Forget that prophet…Make una no make slow for that chick.”

“I want to stay a virgin till I marry,” I would say.

“Shun dey tok me that virgin shit. Which boy you hear say e be twenty-two wey e be virgin?”

I would be mute, bowing down in shame.

“You kiss before?”

No answer.

“Waa see. This boy na jon boy ohh! Sometimes I dey wonder how you den me turn friend.”

No response. He would then signal me to come closer. I would obey, like a lamb. He would put his left arm around me, marijuana defining his breathe, and then put his right hand in his breast pocket for two condoms.

“You go fit go two rounds abi?”

I would sigh weakly.

“Oya, collect the thing before I ask you to pay me back all the money you owe me.”

I would collect them, and then forge a smile which would please his soul.

“Good boy. Make una no disappoint me ohh!!”

 Not wanting to spend the evening inhaling smoke or being with Fawusia, I decided to blow time by challenging a few friends to FIFA. So I went to campus, wasted the little money Yusif had given me on snooker and FIFA, and then waited patiently for hunger to  humble me to retire to my room; my mind still debated whether or I not I should go to church the next morning.
            Sunday morning came like a trosky going to Kotei. Time to weigh the pros and cons whether or not to appear in church. I had several reasons not to go and just one reason to go; to become like my roommate who was already up preparing for service. Like every other undergraduate guy, I had this one trouser I was passionate about. I took it and gave it an ironing. After bathing, I wore a blue-striped shirt, my favorite trouser, and my shoe then went to church. I had scanned through the crowd to spot Sally. I found her, glimmering in indescribable beauty. Throughout the sermon, I was just rehearsing how I would talk to her after church. The preacher’s message was inherently long (another reason why I didn’t like going to church). Had I been high that morning, I would have gone to push him down the pulpit. But he was lucky for the several things that prevented me from creating a scene; my attentive left eye on Sally, and flirty right eye which roamed searching for feminine thighs to feast on. At a point or two, I battled with sleep.

 

I pushed the wooden gate that led to our compound house. All activity on our compound stopped at the sight of me. My mom came out of the kitchen where she had been grinding pepper. My father, paused the journey his right hand was making with a morsel of fufu to his mouth which was wide-opened. He put his hand down, and gave me a serious look.

“Selah?” My mom called.

“Whose daughter is that?”

“Daddy,” I said.

I signaled Sally to come out and show her beautiful self to my astounded parents. She gave my unimpressed parents a smile, and said “Hi”.

“What does that mean? And who is she by the way?”

“Daddy, it’s a greeting.”

“Greeting! I see! Wait for me… I’m coming…”

He gently pushed his food table back, adjusted his cloth, and went inside. He reappeared a few seconds later with his hunting gun, and fired a shot into the sky. Sally shrieked in fear and we fled. I could still his curses behind us.

“Useless son! You should have waited for me to come and respond to your greeting. How can you come home with a witch? NOUN-SENSE! Come here again with that girl and you would see if I would rearrange your face for you…”

 

            May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ…

I woke up when I heard them sharing the grace. I wiped my sweaty forehead, and sighed, thanking God it was only a dream. The lady sitting by me whose thigh my right eye had been monitoring looked at me as if to say, “Are you Okay?”

…TO BE CONTINUED…

Have You Seen Korkor?

            The first thing I do every morning when I wake up from my flatteringly big bed and dreamless sleep is to take my Ch@t 222 and check my Facebook to be abreast with what’s trending. UCC SRC Aspirant Private Videos Leak, the headlines read. The pervertiousness in me hadn’t woken up yet, so I simply ignored the tempting headline. Considering the fact that the ending of last year till now had been characterized by people competing against each other in home-made porn videos, ranging from the distasteful Tamale sex-tape, to Tiffany’s moment of helplessness (which I couldn’t watch because she was my childhood crush), to KKD’s consensual rape saga, to the Limping Man (or whatever he’s called) in the Begoro sex-tape saga, I treated the news with conscious indifference. However, Korkor wouldn’t stop trending. Why would somebody in a private video reason with her conscience to contest in SRC elections? In a school like UCC? If it was Legon (no disrespect), maybe it wouldn’t be so surprising. Even if it was in Tech, we would compromisingly drop our game-pads and accept the free show with glee. But in UCC (a whole University of Choice), that was weird. Who would dare think of contesting in SRC elections with a past as current as Korkor’s?

            The next day, the second episode of Korkor’s alluringly mouthwatering footage was dropped, and a video of Korkor with a message to her new fans (of whom I was to be soon). From her campaign posters, Korkor looked like a nice girl. Particularly, I admired her lips, eyes, smile and skin color. Perhaps, it was at this point that I had to put my Christianity on the line and watch the videos. I started with the one she had the message for her fans, claiming she leaked the videos herself and that she wasn’t on drugs. Well, a dozen of males who watched the videos were so captivated that we never wondered if she was on drugs. And if she was on drugs, then that must be one hell of a drug. She went ahead to demand respect, equality and justice for women. Why would she intentionally leaked her private video on her class page, and then demand respect, equality and justice? What was she trying to achieve? Sympathy votes? Election Sponsorship deals? New love? Finger big men? Or is it a new campaign strategy? If it is, then I can guess no male would ever be interested in leadership. We would just allow the ladies to do their thing, to make our things happy. After all, our erection is going to be their election.

            Because these thoughts echoed in my head as my eyes feasted on the private videos, my pervertiousness didn’t react the way it should have at such indecencies. Normally, my heart would beat at an increasing pace while my mouth waters tantalizingly, after which I would have to start my Christian journey all over again. My reasoning had completely shut down the man in me. Reports from her class indicates that Korkor was academically on point. She was a brilliant young lady, her body was brilliant too. I can emphatically say that Korkor would easily pass for a wife for the gods. She even had an eye for students’ leadership. I don’t know exactly why but I’ve got great admiration for young ladies who want to lead. Who knows, had I been in UCC, I would have been on Korkor’s ‘is-having-a-crush-on-me’ list. There’s no way some fathers would disapprove if their sons tell them Korkor is the girl of their dreams. As a matter of fact, some parents would completely forgive their undergraduate sons for the inability of their semester average to rise. Well, if we are not coming home with First Class degrees, it doesn’t mean we can’t come home with Korkor.

            But you see, instead of hurling ridicule at her as she keeps releasing videos, we should rather support her. I hear she’s reported missing on campus, and at the moment, unreachable. With the way the thing has spread, some people would have committed suicide had they been in her shoes. The country has become so boring that Korkor wants us to release stress that’s probably why she released the videos. Korkor wants to achieve something in her life, unlike those (excuse me to say) ambitionless young women who do all sort of nasty things with countless men day in and day out. Isn’t it this same channel that some so-called celebrities use to be seen in the limelight? I don’t exactly know what Korkor was trying to achieve, but at least she broke the internet in a few days than Vanessa Deborah could ever do in her entire life.

I know by now, some of y’all have lost the small sympathy you initially had for her after considering the way she keeps releasing video after video. Well, when people are disgraced, they act corny to cover up for the embarrassment. Even if that’s not the case, Korkor’s already down; she has nothing to lose. A man who’s down fears no fall. Dear Korkor, come out with an apology and give yourself a second chance; even if it’s your thousandth second chance. Let’s show her love, and pray that she comes out stronger. And talking about character, things would been different had Korkor been treated with a certain level of emotional support and respect which the society had failed to offer her. We live in a society where women are seen as sex symbols. With this kind of tags on our ladies, what do you expect? Abena hasn’t failed; our society has! Some people criticizing Nana Abena Korkor Addo have behaviors that frightens the devil.

And to conclude, KNUST and Legon girls, a UCC girl has just destroyed the marking scheme; and we would be waiting for your response.

                                                                                                                   -  Tony Afuti Eyram,
                                                                                                             Knust, POLITICS 3.

HAVE WE FORGIVEN OUR STARS?

We live in a country where about ninety-five percent of the population have first class coaching and refereeing degrees, while the other five percent are women who watch football just to admire abs. The whole country lost faith in the Stars after they failed to shine in Brazil. We even got uninterested in their AFCON campaign to the extent that we weren’t even disappointed when they lost their first game against Senegal. We even criticized Algeria for causing financial loss to our state by allowing Asamoah Gyan to score a ‘mallam goal’. The Stars went on, undaunted by the about 28million bad luck wishes that followed them in their exploits. Our hopes in the Stars germinated after John Boye scored a typical Cristiano Ronaldo goal. That goal was such a beauty; perhaps more beautiful than the one he scored against us last year in Brazil. Asides the beauty of his AFCON goal, most Ghanaians were thankful that he found the right net this time around.

After the win over South Africa, a few of us were starting to believe in the Stars. They were the only entity we could believe in. We couldn’t believe in our government, economy, cedi, GTV, ECG, GWCL, NSS, MTN, education system, electoral system, examination preparations, examination results, ‘kwashey’ boys, virgin girlfriends, housemaids, ‘trotro’ drivers, laptop chargers, Accra-Kumasi road, GYEEDA, SADA, 'FADA and MADA' etc. The only way to heal the sting of these things I’ve mentioned was to turn our attention to the fire that the Stars were setting in our hopes. Our game against Guinea was a walk-over. Christian Atsu scored a stunner; the kind of goal we would see in every commercial in a few days to come. The Guineans played rough. The referee blew his whistle several times for so many Guinea fouls. We were particularly surprised to see Gabon leave in the early stages, considering the talent of Aubameyang, and the other Gabonese players who had spent all their appearance fees and bonuses on hair dyes.

We hear about ‘juju’ and corruption in the kind of football we play on our continent. The first incident was when a Guinean had a talisman around his waist. Then our own keeper (who failed to catch a single penalty at the final’s shoot-out and failed to score his single penalty) brought a Spiderman toy to the pitch in the game against Equatorial Guinea, and then sprinkled powder in his goal post during the final game. I think CAF shouldn’t allow players to be bringing all these funny symbols to games. It’s a mockery of our spirit world. If your God answers prayers, a prayer should be enough, instead of bringing mantles to the pitch. Talking about the corruption aspect, I believe CAF made a good decision by slamming a heavy fine and ban on the referee that robbed Tunisia, and Tunisia itself for taking the law into their own hands.

Ghana was confident about the Equatorial Guinea game. After bullying them with three goals, their fans shamed themselves by behaving the way NPP supporters would have behaved had the 2012 election results not been petitioned. They took only three and they got upset. Didn’t they hear of how Brazil took seven in an ‘odeyeishi’ manner? The Equatorians didn’t shame Africa; they shamed themselves. They even lost the respect neutrals had for them. Then Avram Grant’s blue Lacoste made news. In fact, it was the discovery of the tournament.  AG’s Lacoste was the only thing Nana Akuffo Addo lacked in his bids to become president. However, that’s a shirt I would like to wear when going to the exam hall, when going to check my bank account, when going to check my semester average, when launching my clothing line, when going to meet my future wife’s parents for the first time etc.

We lost at the finals. Oh yes! We did. Honorably. We lost to an equally strong opponent who haven’t been lucky since 1992. Back then (when Olele was twenty-five), we lost to our cocoa-brothers at a shoot-out. This time around, we started well, taking a two-goal lead in the shoot-out after Idris Elba (Ivory Coast’s number 11) and Wilfried Bony had ‘gyaned’ their penalties. At the end of it, it was the most-mocked at, disrespected, less motivated, less appreciated, highly criticized person in the Ivory Coast team who scored the winning penalty for the elephants, that left a dedicated Dede Ayew crying like someone had taken his lunch away from him.

It was a good tournament; one that would linger on our minds for a very long while. And kudos to Acquah, Acheampong and Razak for officially adding their names to the ‘Penalty-miss’ hall of fame, where fellows like Asamoah Gyan (once was a villain, but can now sit around the same table as Abedi, Tony Yeboah and the likes), John Mensah (who was the Rock of Gibraltar, but kicked a penalty like a toddler), and Aadiyah (who has varnished like varnishing spray). Sammy Kuffuor’s failed back-pass attempt that assisted an Iaquinta goal at the Germany 2006 WC is one I wouldn’t forget soon. Question remains; have we forgiven our stars? Well, we were thinking of doing so, but considering the unnecessary and ridiculous incentives that this confused government is showering on them, my answer is, NOT REALLY! Ohh! My lights just went off!! Ah ECG!!!

                                                                                                -TONY AFUTI EYRAM.